Chapter 25
So I worked.
It was work or sit in my office and mope. Moping wouldn’t stop Blackbyrne, more’s the pity, which left only the first alternative. I collected the Arcanorum and all my notes, and went to face the library.
I immersed myself in the task, combing through the ghastly text printed on the crumbling pages of the Al Azif and the Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Now that I comprehended even a portion of the truth lurking behind the ravings of the mad prophet and von Junzt’s weighty text alike, I shuddered at certain passages. The world was hideously fragile, everyday life nothing more than a thin film laid over infinite depths of chaos and terror.
But it was still my life, and I’d be damned if I let Blackbyrne tear it away without a fight.
Around five o’clock, Quinn found me still scribbling notes and crosschecking between the piles of books, which had grown steadily throughout the day. “Will you remain here after closing?” he asked.
I could stop for the day, but what would be the point? To go home to my barren little apartment, with nothing to divert my thoughts from Griffin?
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll return the books to their places before I leave.”
He departed. I waited a bit, until the distant sounds of the library staff gathering their things for the day dwindled to nothing, then scooped up the books. I wasn’t supposed to remove the valuable tomes from the library, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to sit here amidst the shadows and half-heard sounds, especially not with the basement entrance open. Although we’d been assured the tunnel was now unusable thanks to the collapse, I couldn’t help but imagine what might crawl up out of the depths.
As I walked toward the library entrance, memory sank unexpected hooks into my chest. Griffin had defended me to Bradley here, even when he had no idea I was listening. Coming to check on his asset after the theft of the night before I could understand, but why not cultivate Bradley in case he could prove useful as well? Why risk bad blood for my sake?
Unless I did mean something to him, after all.
But the things he’d written about using our shared inclinations to secure my cooperation were clear. And if I had a hard time reconciling them with the tender lover I’d found in him, it only served to illustrate just how deep a game he had played.
I’d been standing still, lost in my confused thoughts, for several minutes. Tightening my grip on the books, I hurried out of the library and made for my office, where I locked the door behind me. I would not hope. There was no chance of reconciliation with Griffin. None.
Damn him.
With a shake of my head, I reopened the books to various marked pages and took out my notes. Putting all thoughts of Griffin aside for the moment, I bent over the pages and was soon lost in the work.
I must have fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning, because I woke to a frantic pounding on my office door. I lifted my head groggily, my mind a tumult of confusion. My neck ached abominably from sleeping in such a position, and my cheek had been pressed against the open pages of the Arcanorum. At least I hadn’t drooled on the text.
“Whyborne? Whyborne, are you in there?” Christine called, but her voice held an unfamiliar note of fear, which had me on my feet almost before I was entirely awake.
“One moment,” I said, stumbling to the door. God, my mouth tasted horrible. I longed for some dentifrice, a comb, and a cup of coffee. A glance at the clock revealed it was almost eight.
Her face was pale, and her mouth set in a grim line of worry. “What happened?” I asked. “Oh good Lord—did the steamer catch fire and destroy your equipment?”
“What? No!” She glanced at my desk, then at me. “You slept here?”
“I had work to do.”
“You won’t have seen the paper, then. It’s all over the front page. Griffin’s been arrested for the murder of Madam Rosa.”
~ * ~
I hurried through the streets to the police station. In my haste, I’d forgotten my overcoat, and the wind bit through my suit with icy teeth.
The newspaper article had been disturbingly short on details, saying only Griffin Flaherty, lately of Chicago, was suspected of murdering one Rosa Waite, the “proprietress” of a saloon on the evening of December 12. He’d been taken into custody shortly after I’d left his house. What would have happened if I had still been there? Would I be sitting in a cell beside him?
The police were being paid off, as they had been in the matter of Philip’s death. If the Brotherhood were aware of Griffin’s involvement, surely they knew of mine. Did they have some plan to dispose of me as well, or did they hope Griffin’s arrest would keep me quiet?
If the latter, they would soon learn their mistake. Griffin might have used me cruelly, but I couldn’t leave him in jail. I would go down and give my statement: we had jointly found the madam’s body. If it didn’t work, I would invoke my father’s name.
And if that didn’t work, I would involve Father. I didn’t know what he might ask in exchange for his aid, but I would give it to free Griffin. Even if it meant leaving the museum for whatever horrible job Father wished me to take.
I spotted the police station with relief; the wind had me chilled to the bone. Hurrying inside, I paused and looked around, wondering to whom I might speak.
The same officer sat at the desk as on my only other visit. He frowned uncertainly as I approached. “Dr. Whyborne, isn’t it? How can I help you, sir?”
Well he might frown. I must look like a madman, with my hair uncombed, my suit creased from sleeping in it, my face pink from the cold, and no overcoat in sight. My case would have been better served if I’d gone home and tidied up first, but I couldn’t leave Griffin sitting alone in a jail cell even for the hour it would have taken.
Devil take me. I still loved the man, despite everything.
“I understand Mr. Flaherty is under arrest,” I said. “I would like to speak with him, if I may.”
The officer’s frown only grew, although now it was one of confusion. “I’m sorry, Dr. Whyborne, but Mr. Flaherty isn’t here any more. Mr. Somerby came by earlier, paid his bail, and left with him. I was under the impression you had asked Mr. Somerby to come, sir, or at least that’s what he said to the suspect when Flaherty was brought out.”
“Addison Somerby?” I asked stupidly, although there weren’t any other Somerbys in Widdershins.
“Yes, sir. Perhaps they missed you?”
“I…yes. Thank you.”
I wandered back outside to shiver on the sidewalk, my thoughts whirling about like flakes of snow. Why on earth would Addison bail out Griffin? Addison had seen us both at the gala, and no doubt had deduced we were friends, but a newspaper article wouldn’t send him rushing down here to help a man who was a virtual stranger to him. And why lie to Griffin by claiming I had sent him?
Unless it was the only way Addison could get Griffin to come with him.
Which still begged the question: why? The only people in Widdershins who had any particular interest in Griffin were myself and his employer, Mr. Rice. And the Brotherhood, of course.
The Brotherhood.
No. No, it was impossible. Uncle Addy would never do such a thing. Not my own godfather, Leander’s father, who had welcomed me into his home with such warmth. I would go to him at once, and find Griffin with him, safe and sound.
Unless I was right, in which case I’d be delivering myself into the hands of the Brotherhood along with Griffin.
Father would know. He and Addison were best friends, had been since their university days. He would tell me my suspicions were foolish.
Tucking my hands under my armpits for warmth, I hurried in the direction of the nearest cab.
~ * ~
I didn’t bother with the knocker this time, only flung open the door to Whyborne House and walked inside. Mr. Fenton scurried out of the front parlor, his face a study in outrage. “Master Percival! I wasn’t informed you’d be coming by today.”
“I must speak with Father immediately,” I said, ignoring his affront. I’d grown up in this house, and even if I would never inherit so much as a matchstick, I still had the right to visit whenever I damned well pleased. “Where is he?”
“Mr. Whyborne is out,” Fenton said, glancing at the front door, as if hoping I’d take the hint and leave as well.
Damn it. Of course he was. Why should anything ever be easy? “I’ll wait.”
“It may be some time. If you’ll leave your card—”
“Then I’ll speak to Mother.” She wouldn’t likely know anything useful in this case, but I was at my wit’s end. Brushing past Fenton, I hurried up the familiar stair.
Mother sat beneath one of the large windows of her room, reading as always. When I entered, a look of surprise and happiness transformed her face. “Percival! What an unexpected pleasure!”
“Mother.” I settled on the edge of the divan on which she rested. “I’m very sorry, but my visit isn’t precisely social. I must speak with Father, but it seems he’s out.”
A dark cloud seemed to pass over her face, dimming her smile. “Yes. He came to see me before he and your brother left. He was acting a bit…odd.”
Probably some business deal or other. “Do you know when he’ll be back? I have a question about Uncle Addy.”
She peered up at me quizzically. “Addison? I think Niles and Stanford intended to meet him somewhere. Niles was very vague, but he said they wouldn’t return until tomorrow morning, and not to worry. Percival? Is something wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”
My hands had gone numb, and a cold sweat coated my skin, but I managed to stammer, “N-No, Mother. Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry, but I have to be on my way.”
“Percival?” she called after me. I mumbled something incoherent and hurried to the stair. I had to get out, get away, into the free air where I could breathe again.
Once back on the street, I stopped and leaned against a lamppost, dizzy and sick. Griffin had been right to suspect me. The Whybornes were in it up to our necks. Only I, the rebellious son, hadn’t been invited to join the society encompassing Widdershins’s wealthy families.
It made perfect sense in retrospect. If Addison was a member of the Brotherhood, then his best friend would be as well. And why would Stanford leave his family behind in New York, this close to Christmas? Of course the favored son was in on it.
My own father and brother were in the cult. From what they had told Mother, the ritual would take place tonight.
And I had no idea where it might be or how to stop it.
~ * ~
Bereft of any other purpose, I walked to Griffin’s house to check on Saul. The big marmalade tom ran up as soon as I stepped onto the walk, meowing piteously. I picked him up in my arms and carried him onto the porch.
The front door had been left unlocked when the police took Griffin. I let myself in, went to the kitchen, and found something for Saul to eat. That done, I wandered out into the hall.
Griffin’s overcoat hung on the hook near the door. They’d taken him without letting him properly dress for the weather. I took it from its place, and the smell of his skin rose from the fabric to greet me.
Was he cold right now? Had they fed him? Was he even still alive?
I buried my face in the cloth, hugging it to me. Why hadn’t I stayed to listen to his side of things? Why had I let pride rule my actions; why had I been so desperate to protect myself from one more embarrassment?
I knew the answer, of course. To remain and have him mock me, no different than Bradley or Stanford, would have broken me. So I had taken the coward’s path, and now I’d never know for certain if he would have or not. Once again, I had been too weak, and the man I loved would pay the price.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his coat. “Oh, Griffin, I’m sorry.”
Addison—the Brotherhood—had taken him alive. Maybe they meant to kill him discreetly. Or maybe they meant to use him as a sacrifice of sorts. After all, the newly-raised dead needed fresh human flesh. Perhaps they meant to let whomever—whatever—they called forth tonight feed on him as revenge for his attempts to foil their plot.
I pulled on the heavy overcoat, even though it was too short. Saul wanted back out; I let him into the yard, closed the door behind us, and went to the street.
I walked blindly; there was nowhere left to go. We had lost the fight. Nothing remained but to wait for whatever horror Blackbyrne had in store for the world.
If I had known about Father’s involvement, could I have talked him out of it? Could I have revealed what I believed Blackbyrne had planned for the world? Would he have listened if I had?
Of course not. He never listened to me. Why would this have been any different?
It shouldn’t have hurt, really, finding out Father and Stanford were members in the Brotherhood. But it did. Addison’s betrayal stung more, though, because I’d always believed him to be a better man.
I’d been a blind fool.
I found myself on Cemetery Road, the steep slope of Kings Hill stretching before me. A few flakes of snow drifted down lazily from the leaden clouds. The dark mass of the Draakenwood crouched on the horizon like a hunting animal.
Blackbyrne had been in the forest, the day Griffin and I went to the burying ground. Would the ritual tonight take place there? Should I go into it and search? What would I do if I encountered Blackbyrne there a second time?
The sound of clopping hooves came from behind me. Lost in my thoughts, I’d wandered into the road and was forced to step quickly to the sidewalk to make way for a funeral procession. A black horse pulled a dark catafalque; inside was a tiny coffin, too small to belong to any but a child. I removed my hat and watched the parents who followed behind the coffin on foot. The stoic father in his dark suit reminded me of Addison, who had never put off mourning for Leander.
Addison, who had allied himself with a cult capable of returning the dead to life.
Oh God. It was Leander they meant to resurrect tonight.
~ * ~
I entered Bradley’s office without knocking. He sat behind his desk as before, this time scribbling notes onto a pad of paper.
“Really, Percy, can’t you knock?” he said, as if he hadn’t burst into my office uninvited a hundred times.
“What did Addison Somerby want the day he came to see you?”
Bradley raised his brows, apparently taken aback. “Why do you wish to know?”
There was no time left for niceties. “Just tell me.”
“He asked to see one of the original maps of Widdershins. The one Theron Blackbyrne drew up himself.”
“Show it to me.”
Bradley drew himself up, puffing out his chest. “Now, see here, Percy, I have work to do. I don’t know what you’re about—”
“Bradley.” I loomed over his desk, using my height to my advantage. A bit to my surprise, he shrank back. “A man’s life is in the balance. Do as I ask, and it won’t be yours.”
Bradley blinked, started to say something, then visibly stopped himself. Pulling a key from his pocket, he said, “Um, yes. Come this way.”
He led me to the rare map room, unlocked one of the cases, and left rather hastily. Possibly to report me to the director, but what did it matter?
Removing the map from its case, I spread it on a table. The old paper crumbled at the edges, but the ink was still clear enough to make out details. Blackbyrne’s master plan for Widdershins. What was it Bradley had said, the day I came to ask about Blackbyrne? “… it was all the rage to try to trace some kind of hidden message in the very streets of the town…”
The old map was simple and bore little resemblance to the modern tangle of streets, which made things far easier. A quick trip to Miss Parkhurst’s desk, and I returned with a pencil and onionskin paper, which I laid over the map.
I traced the streets: a circle around Kings Hill, a wing-like curve along the waterfront, the line of a talon. When I was finished, I had the phoenix-and-ouroboros symbol of the Brotherhood, inscribed upon the very streets of the city.
And at the point where the serpent and the phoenix came together, the Cranch River briefly became a lake, with an island in the center.
My hands shook as I took away the onionskin. What was now Somerby Estate had a label on it, written in miniscule. Leaning forward, I squinted at the slanted letters. The old writing was badly faded but still readable.
Blackbyrne Manor.
Of course. The ritual would take place on the island in the lake. Leander had been right, all those years ago; cultists were performing terrible rites there. And now he would live again, resurrected in the very place he had died.
Ouroboros. The serpent ate its tail.